Chapter XLV (1)

Mrs. Hazleton found the inconvenience of having a dear friend. It was in vain that she tried to get rid of her visitor. The visitor would not be got rid of. She was deaf to hints; she paid no attention to any kind of inuendoes; and she looked so knowing, so full of important secrets, so quietly mischievous, that Mrs. Hazleton was cowed by that most unnerving of all things, the consciousness of meditated crime. She could not help thinking that the fair widow saw into her thoughts and purposes--she could not help doubting the impenetrability of the veil behind which hypocrisy hides the hideous features of unruly passion--she could not help thinking that the keen-sighted and astute must perceive some of the movements at least of the rude movers of the painted puppets of the face--the smile, the gay looks, the sparkling eyes, the calm placid brow, the dignified serenity, which act their part in the glittering scene of the world, too often worked by the most harsh, foul, and brutal of all the motives of the human heart. But she was irritated too, as well as fearful; and there was a sort of combat went on between impatience and apprehension. Had she given way to inclination she would have ordered one of her servants to take the intruder by the shoulders and put her out of doors; but for more than an hour after the time she had fixed for setting out, vague fears--however groundless and absurd--were sufficiently powerful to restrain her temper. She was not of a character, however, to be long cowed by any thing. She had great confidence in herself--in her own resources--in her own conduct and good fortune likewise. That confidence might have been a little shaken indeed by events which had lately occurred; but anger soon rallied it, and brought it back to her aid. She asked herself if she were a fool to dread that woman--what it was she had discovered--what it was that she could testify. She had merely seen her doing what almost every lady did a hundred times in the year in those day--preparing some simples in the still-room; and gradually as she found that gentle hints proved unsuccessful, she resumed her natural dignity of demeanor. That again gave way to a chilling silence, and then to a somewhat irritable imperiousness, and rising from her chair, she begged her visitor to excuse her, alledging that she had business of importance to transact which would occupy her during the whole day.

Not one of all the variation of conduct--not one sign, however slight, of impatience, doubt, or anger--escaped the keen eye that was fixed upon her. Mrs. Hazleton, under the influence of conscience, did not exactly betray the dark secrets of her own heart, but she raised into importance, an act in itself the most trifling, which would have passed without any notice had she not been anxious to conceal it.

As soon as her visitor, taking a hint that could not be mistaken, had quitted the room and the house, with an air of pique and ill-humor, Mrs. Hazleton returned to the still-room and recommenced her operations there; but she found her hand shaking and her whole frame agitated.

"Am I a fool," she asked herself, "to be thus moved by an empty gossip like that? I must conquer this, or I shall be unfit for my task."

She sat down at a table, leaned her head upon her hand, gazed forth out of the little window, forced her mind away from the present, thought of birds and flowers, and pictures and statues, and of the two sunshiny worlds of art and nature--of every thing in short but the dark, dark cares of her own passions. It was a trick she had learned to play with herself--one of those pieces of internal policy by which she had contrived so often and so long, to rule and master with despotic sway the frequent rebellions of the body against the tyranny of the mind.

She had not sat there two minutes, however, ere there was a tap at the door, and she started with a quick and jarring thrill, as if that knock had been a summons of fate. The next instant she looked quickly around, however, and was satisfied that whoever entered could find no cause for suspicion. She was there seated quietly at the table. The vial was out of sight, the fatal powder hidden in the palm of her hand, and she said aloud, "Come in."

The butler entered, bowing profoundly and saying, "The carriage is at the door, madam, and Wilson has just come back from the house of Mr. Shanks, but he could not find him."

The man hesitated a little as if he wished to add something more, and Mrs. Hazleton replied in a somewhat sharp tone, "I told you when I sent it away just now that I would tell you when I was ready. I shall not be so for half an hour; but let it wait, and do not admit any one. Mr. Shanks must be found, and informed that I want to see him early to-morrow, as I shall go to London on the following day."

"I am sorry to say, madam," replied the butler, "that if the talk of the town is true, he will not be able to come. They say he has been apprehended on a charge of perjury and forgery in regard to that business of Sir Philip Hastings, and has been sent off to the county jail."

Mrs. Hazleton looked certainly a little aghast, and merely saying "Indeed!" she waved her hand for the man to withdraw.

She then sat silent and motionless for at least five minutes. What passed within her I cannot tell; but when she rose, though pale as marble, she was firm, calm, and self-possessed as ever. She turned the key in the lock; she drew a curtain which covered the lower half of the window, farther across, so that no eye from without, except the eye of God, could see what she was doing there within. She then drew forth the vial from its nook, opened out the small packet of powder, and poured part of it into a glass. She seemed as if she were going to pour the whole, but she paused in doing so, and folded up the rest again, saying, "That must be fully enough; I will keep the rest; it may be serviceable, and I can get no more."

She gazed down upon the ground near her feet with a look of cold, stern, but awful resolution, as if there had been an open grave before her; and then she placed the packet in her glove, poured a little distilled water into the glass, shook it, and held the mixture up to the light. The powder had in great part dissolved, but not entirely, and she added a small quantity more of the distilled water, and poured the whole into the vial, which was already about one-third full of a dark colored liquid.

"Now I will go," she said, concealing the bottle. But when she reached the door, and had her hand upon the lock, she paused and remained in very deep thought for an instant, with her brow slightly contracted and her lip quivering. Heaven knows what she thought of then,--whether it was doubt, or fear, or pity, or remorse--but she said in a low tone, "Down, fool! it shall be done," and she passed out of the room.

She paused suddenly in the little passage which led to the still-room, by a pair of double doors, into the principal part of the house, perceiving with some degree of consternation that she had been unconsciously carrying the vial with its dark colored contents in her hand, exposed to the view of all observers. Her eye ran round the passage with a quick and eager glance; but there was no one in sight, and she felt reassured. Even at that moment she could smile at her own heedlessness, and she did smile as she placed the bottle in her pocket, saying to herself, "How foolish! I must not suffer such fits of absence to come upon me, or I shall spoil all."

She then walked quietly to her dressing-room, arranged her dress for the little journey before her, and descended again to the hall, where the servants were waiting for her coming. After she had entered the carriage, however, she again fell into a fit of deep thought, closed her eyes, and remained as if half asleep for nearly an hour. Perhaps it would be too much to scrutinize the state or changes of her feelings during that long, painful lapse of thought. That there was a struggle--a terrible struggle--can hardly be doubted--that opportunity was given her for repentance, for desistance, between the purpose and the deed, we know; and there can be little doubt that the small, still voice--which is ever the voice of God--spoke to her from the spirit-depth within, and warned her to forbear. But she was of an unconquerable nature; nothing could turn her; nothing could overpower her, when she had once resolved on any act. There was no persuasion had effect; no remonstrance was powerful. Reason, conscience, habit itself, were but dust in the balance in the face of one of her determinations.

She roused herself suddenly from her fit of moody abstraction, when the carriage was still more than a mile from the house of Sir Philip Hastings. She looked at the watch which hung by her side, and gazed at the sky; and then she said to herself, "That woman's impertinent intrusion was intolerable. However, I shall get there an hour before the twenty-four hours have passed, and doubtless she will have kept her word and refrained from speaking till she has seen me; but I am afraid I shall find her woke up from her mid-day doze, and that may make the matter somewhat difficult. Difficult! why I have seen jugglers do tricks a thousand times to which this is a mere trifle. My sleight of hand will not fail me, I think;" and then she set her mind to work to plan out every step of her proceedings.

All was clearly and definitely arranged by the time she arrived at the door of Sir Philip Hastings' house. Her face was cleared of every cloud, her whole demeanor under perfect control. She was the Mrs. Hazleton, the calm, dignified, graceful Mrs. Hazleton, which the world knew; and when she descended from the carriage with a slow but easy step, and spoke to the coachman about one of the springs which had creaked and made a noise on the way, not one of Sir Philip Hastings' servants could have believed that her mind was occupied with any thing more grave than the idle frivolous thoughts of an every-day society.

* * * * *

The shrewdest and most successful of politicians has given us the secret of his policy in the words, Follow the public so closely that you shall seem to lead it.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Continued from page 201

MUSIC.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY H. W. PARKER.

The singing spheres
Entranced the very time they measured out;
And memory drew me back to one sweet year,
When, born anew to thought and love, the earth
Was new, and music--fancy's dancing light
Till then--became a dazzling revelation.
'Twas in a city, midway from the hymns
Of Trenton and Niagra. 'Twas an eve
When a whole nation sighed, as hour by hour,
The news electric ran that he was dying,
The Palo Alto hero. Then and there,
I hear the orchestra that once had winged
The festal hours when first the hero stood,
A nation's chief. To me, the hall, the crowd,
Were not; I watched a window-square of sky
Deepen from tender blue to night profound;
And, as it deepened, heard the voice of Time,
All Time, all joy and sorrow, madness, woe,
And saw a thousand forms of light and gloom,
From music born. Distorted faces glared;
Long lines of star-browed angels circled down,
And ages dead were summoned back to earth.
The horn rang out the joy of happy souls;
The viol screamed and laughed in scorn, and groans
Rose dread and deep from under gulfs of night.
The past, the future life of self, of all.
Before me crowded, wailed, entreated, warned,
Battled, triumphed, or struggled wildly past,
A long procession.
Good for me the hour
When music, erst a sylph or monster form,
Assumed the glory that immortals wear,
And sang to me the messages of Heaven.
It nerved me newly for the war of life,
Of truth, humanity. Now, a naked soul,
I dwelt within the central court of space--
No globe immense, but the aye changing point,
Where centred, hangs the whole creation's weight,
Light as a snow-flake, on the hand of God.
The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom
Of giant suns that slowly came and went,
The whistlings, sweet and clear, of lesser orbs,
And the low thunder of more distant deeps,
Ever commingling, grew to eloquence
No earthly brain may bear. The universe
Had found a voice: the countless souls that fill
The countless earths, were calling each to each,
In tones as high as heaven, as deep as hell,
And many as the many words. I felt
What is existence, what the vast extent,
The mystery, and the far result....

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE:

OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[10]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF H. DE ST. GEORGES.

III. THE DUEL

It was a morning of December, but one of those fitful days when, the sun shining and the sky cloudless, the weather might lead one to suppose it to be spring, were the temperature not so cold and sharp, or if the flowers would only open, and the sun were as warm as it was bright. The young Marquise de Maulear sat over her painting, with Scorpione at her feet, when the Count Monte-Leone was announced.

"Show him in," said Aminta.

The Count entered. He was very pale, and there was a secret emotion on his countenance which Aminta discovered at once.

"What is the matter?" said she; "why have you come so early to see me? I do not reproach you for this; but if you intend by what you do now to stay away this evening, I object to it. I protest against this, Monsieur."

"How beautiful you are!" said Monte-Leone, "and how I love to hear you thus calculate your moments of happiness."

"Ah, Monsieur, I am very exacting, I have already told you. I will, however, grant you one hour, especially as time passes so rapidly in your company." Then she said, sadly, "Life is so short!"

"Yes, very short," said the Count; "especially when the career you promise me is pleasant--enough so to make one wish it would never end."

"I should so wish it, but you, perhaps, would think it tedious."

"It should be eternal," said Monte-Leone, "and eternity itself would not suffice for me to prove my tenderness. Besides, my purgatory here has been long enough. Have I not suffered all the tortures of hell since the day I renounced you? Ah!" said he, passionately, "you will never know how I loved, and how I now love you."

"Yes, yes," said Aminta, with a smile, "a heart like yours, I think, can love but once. I speak seriously--do you hear, sir? This word means much--so much that I tremble to think of it. You love me, and always will. I have faith in you."

"The future," said the Count, with an expression of sorrow which he could not conquer, "is your own--at least, if such is God's will, for mine is in your hands."

"What mean you?" said the Marquise, fearfully, and looking again with anxiety at the Count. "What trouble now menaces you? Would you leave Paris and myself? Well, that is a small affair. The country you dwell in shall be my country--the climate you select shall be mine. I will love the climate you love, even if it be as sombre and icy as our Italy is warm and glorious. The true country is where we find happiness."

"Dear Aminta," said the Count, with a delight he could not repress, "it would be terrible to die now."

Scorpione drew near the Count, and looked at him with a strange expression. One might have fancied that like the idiots of northern lands, who, we are assured, have a strange prescience of the future, this poor being was seized on by an unfortunate presentiment.

The words she had heard echoed sadly in Aminta's heart. "My friend," said she "for some time I have seen that you suffered. You are no longer happy in my presence. For pity's sake conceal nothing from me. Something terrible and unknown exists in your heart. To whom else but me would you confide it? Who would you permit to share my torments? Who should suffer with you? Tell me, I beseech you, for doubt is worse even than misery."

The Count felt his very soul expand as he heard this expression of Aminta's interest. He was about to speak to her. Could he, however, reveal to a young and tender woman the fate which menaced him--the duel which as was said was to be merciless? Could he tell her of the prospect of death in the midst of his dreams of happiness. All this was barbarous and impossible, and the Count sought to lull the storm he had excited, to soften her fears, and to efface her suspicions.

"My noble and dear Aminta, no violent and arbitrary power forces me to leave you. Perhaps, however, I am about to undertake a journey--a long journey," he said, with feelings he sought in vain to repress. "An important and imperious duty forces me to do so, and you see that I am sad on account of the farewell I am about to bid you."

"Farewell!" said Aminta, growing pale; "a journey, a departure! Wait but a few months, and we will go together."

This thought, so full of love, seemed sad to the Count, and at once he said,

"No, no; I must make this journey alone. But," said he, "I will return, and thenceforth leave you no more. This will be my last separation and absence." The Count pronounced these words with such earnestness that a smile of joy flitted across Aminta's countenance.

"Well," said she, "at least I know what danger menaces. I know now the secret of your distress, and the cause of the melancholy which I could not before penetrate. Count," continued she, "you have sometimes seen me brave and courageous. Judge then of my affection by the tears which I cannot repress."

Monte-Leone took the young woman's hand, and covered it with kisses. In the interim, leaning against a wall, and with his features contracted by grief, the idiot shed tears, because he saw Aminta do so. A servant appeared, and told the Count that Taddeo Rovero asked to see him. Monte-Leone looked up, and glancing at the clock, thought it was one. Aminta stopped him as he was about to go. "Shall I see you again?" said she.

"Yes, yes," said the Count--"to-night--to-morrow."

"One word more," said she; "travel has its danger, and now I know you will take care of yourself; for henceforth your life does not belong to you alone. Every day I will pray for you. I should not, however, be an Italian woman if my heart had no tender superstition. Yours, my brother has told me, is not exempt from this feeling. You have one family superstition in particular," said she. "This is an heir-loom. Take it again," said she, and she placed on the Count's finger the ring of Benvenuto, which Monte-Leone long before had sent her through Taddeo. "They tell me it has always brought you good fortune. Do not part with it again, for my sake, as I once received it for yours."

"Aminta," said the Count, "again you restore confidence to me. I expected to leave you full of love--but you can yet once more make me happy."

"How so?" said she.

"Let this be our wedding-ring."

"So be it," said Aminta.

"Countess di Monte-Leone," said the Count, regaining his energy, and speaking with a transport of joy. "We will meet again--I swear we will."

He left, and the idiot followed the Count. Monte-Leone's brow became bright. He had made up his mind, and regained his firmness.

The countless indistinct voices of nature alone interrupted the silence of this solitude, the echoes of which had so often resounded with the cry of grief, or the last sighs of a dying man. It was two o'clock when Monte-Leone and his companions appeared at the _rendezvous_. The place was as yet solitary, but in the course of a few minutes the distant sound of wheels reached their ears, and informed them that ere long their adversaries would be present. The latter, in fact, descended as they had themselves done at the round point which led to the ruins, and before many minutes had passed the two parties had met. Two officers, one of the navy and the other of the general's regiment, accompanied the Lieutenant. The Count and the Lieutenant stood aside. The witnesses approached each other. "Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "the Count Monte-Leone, as well as ourselves, is ignorant what could have given rise to the atrocious insult your friend has uttered, the latter having refused to explain it. Perhaps you will think it your duty to do so."

The naval officer said, "Monsieur, we are sorrow to say, that we know nothing more of the matter than you do. Lieutenant A---- is one of the most gallant officers of the royal navy. He has requested us to attend him here to-day, swearing that his cause was just and honorable, but that he would unfold its cause only _in articulo mortis_, or in case his adversary fell. We have such confidence in our comrade's honor and prudence, that we determined to do as he wished us."

"You, as well as we, gentlemen," said the other second, "have read the letter sent by Lieutenant A---- to Count Monte-Leone, and are aware that it was placed out of the power of the latter to refuse the challenge, even if he thought he had as yet received insufficient provocation."

"This is enough, Messieurs," said Von Apsberg. "I have made an appeal to you, and I see with sorrow that you disagree with me. I have hitherto considered the seconds in a duel as being charged with the soul of their friend. Without however pronouncing on the reasons which seem to have influenced Lieutenant A---- in his bearing towards such a man as Monte-Leone, we agree with you that he has given more than sufficient provocation for bloodshed. Let us therefore cut short this conversation, and proceed. We claim the choice of arms."

"Very well," said the officers.

"We select pistols," said Taddeo, "and rigorously using all our rights, claim the first fire; or that his adversary object by maintaining that he has received the first insult."

"Lieutenant A---- will maintain no such thing," said the naval officer.

"Then, gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "we will not hesitate to take advantage of the benefit allowed us by the laws of duelling."

The seconds of A---- consented, and the weapons were loaded. When the terms were explained to Monte-Leone he said, "I wish that in this unfortunate and mysterious affair the right may be on my side. I insist, therefore, that the terms be equal, and that this gentleman and myself fire together, or when we please, advancing from a distance of twenty paces on each side. I take particular care, also, to say, not from bravado merely, but because I think proper to do so, that I am an extremely good shot."

"Were I not resolved to kill you," said the Lieutenant, "I would refuse this insolent generosity. I think I have such rights over your life, and my vengeance is of so sacred character, that I accept it without hesitation."

All then were silent--the ground measured and the pistols loaded. All this passed beneath a wall of the old monastery of Longchamps. The two enemies were placed opposite. The signal was given, and each lifted his arm. Without advancing towards his enemy, who walked rapidly towards him, Count Monte-Leone fired and his ball took effect on the body of the Lieutenant, who sank on the ground before him. He did not utter a complaint, did not close his eyes, but supporting himself on his elbow he fired on Monte-Leone. The ball would have struck the Count in the breast had not a man rushed rapidly as lightning from the thicket, and covering the Count with his body, received the ball in his own heart.

Four persons cried out at once. The seconds rushed towards the victim, who was Scorpione. The poor idiot thus died for Aminta, for he rescued one she loved. When they lifted up the unfortunate lad he was dead. It was afterwards learned from the people of the house that when he saw Taddeo with the pistol case, he had gotten into a hackney coach and followed the three friends. He beyond doubt remembered the box which he had seen in the hands of the Count at the time of the difficulty with the Marquis de Maulear. He had gone thus to the rendezvous and sprang from his concealment only to receive the mortal wound.

While Von Apsberg, Monte-Leone, and Taddeo sought to reanimate Tonio, the seconds of A---- supported him, and made useless efforts to staunch the blood which poured from his wound. Von Apsberg being satisfied that Scorpione was dead, offered his services to the Lieutenant. He, however, had fainted. Von Apsberg took out his case and cut two long straps of adhesive plaster for the purpose of healing the wound. He soon saw that his efforts would be useless. He said the ball is in the pylorus, and that noble organ being injured, death, unless a miracle ensue, must supervene. The seconds looked on with amazement. Just then the sound of the feet of several horses was heard, one of the officers said, "It is the forest keepers."

"Hurry away," said Von Apsberg to Monte-Leone, who yet held the hand of Scorpione and looked at him with great pity. "Hurry away. They will arrest you as the murderer of this man and what then will become of the association?"

The Count yet hesitated, for this sudden flight might seem injurious to his character. He was unwilling to shake off the responsibility of any act of his life.

"For Aminta's sake," said Taddeo, in a low voice; and the Count, rushing into the thicket, disappeared.

A few minutes passed and they waited for the horsemen, whose uniforms were seen in the distance. This was idle, for they passed within a few paces of the dead body without noticing it.

And another, too, in spite of all Von Apsberg's efforts, was dying. A convulsive whistle began to escape from the breast of the Lieutenant, his eyes rolled in his head, and his sight began to grow dim. The blood ceased to flow, and only a few black drops escaped from time to time. Suddenly the body which had become contracted, expanded, and by a last effort the eyes of the dying man began to expand and glittered strangely.

"Listen all," said he sharply and distinctly; "do not loose one word I say. These are the last words I shall ever pronounce. May God grant me power to unmask a traitor and prevent him from making new victims." All drew near, and paid attention to the words of one about to appear before his Creator. The respirations of the three auditors were distinct. "I said that I would reveal my secret only _in articulo mortis_, or in case my adversary fell, I will keep my promise. I did not tell you," and he turned with pain towards his seconds, "why I insulted this man who has killed me. The reason was that if I had spoken you would not have suffered me to meet him as being unworthy of the arm of an honest man. I wished to kill him first and unmask him afterwards. This brilliant Count Monte-Leone is a miserable hanger-on of the police. The people call such things _eaves-droppers_, but men of higher rank give them another name: Monte-Leone is a SPY IN SOCIETY."

"Horror! it is a slander," said Von Apsberg and Taddeo.

"By all that is dearest to me," said the Lieutenant, whose voice became every moment weaker and weaker, "by my father's life, by my own soul, this is true. Monte-Leone denounced the General, and my father himself gave me evidence of the fact, which is beyond a doubt. He will also satisfy you--men do not lie at the hour of death, and I am dying with these words on my lips."

He closed his eyes and died.

IV--THE ANONYMOUS NOTE.

Nothing could describe the stupefaction of the four seconds of the duel at what A----said. Von Apsberg was the first to divest himself of the mute terror which seemed to have taken possession of all. "Gentlemen," said he, "I appeal to your honor. The truth of a dying man's assertions cannot be suspected. I am sure he was convinced of the truth of his assertion. This alone can palliate his statements. M. A---- would have soon recovered from his unfortunate impression in relation to the count, and it is a pity that he did not sooner impart it to us. We are able to furnish such evidence of Monte Leone's truth that he would have himself confessed that he was wrong. We will see at all risks the unfortunate young man's father and will attempt to discover the origin of this strange imputation. We will ask one favor of you, such as may be between people of honor, to suspend your judgments in relation to Monte-Leone until we are able to satisfy you this originated in some terrible mistake."

The naval officer then said: "We have no reason to be hostile to Count Monte-Leone, and his conduct in relation to the preliminaries of the duel rather inspire us with respect. We will, then, await your communications and say nothing of the circumstances."

"I thank you, sirs--all here has occurred as should between men of honor and courage. Let us now take care of the victims. Each take care of his own friend," pointing to the son of the General and to Scorpione.

A quarter of an hour afterwards there remained only a few drops of dried-up blood on the withered leaves and on the moss. When Taddeo returned with the body of Tonio, Monte-Leone was already with the Marquise. When the latter saw him, she thought in obedience to his promise he had come to bid her adieu. Then the Count told her what had happened, and the circumstances of Scorpione's death. Aminta wept.

All the self-denial of the poor lad appeared before her; his torture and suffering which began and ended his life. The arrival of Taddeo, therefore, distressed her. The Count, however, was there, and she had discovered the direction of his pretended voyage. The Count, perhaps, regretted Tonio's death as much as she did, for he had been its involuntary cause and could not console himself for it.

A few hours after, Von Apsberg and Taddeo met at the bedside of the Vicomte, who was yet sick. They told him all the incidents of the duel, and they concurred in thinking the statements of the dying Lieutenant most atrocious. They determined not to speak of it to the Count whose anger and exasperation, they feared at such a statement. As Von Apsberg had said to the Lieutenant's seconds, they determined at all hazards to reach the General's cell, and thus explain the mystery. Three days passed in useless efforts to induce the authorities to accede to their request. At last the Procureur du roi relaxed in favor of Doctor Matheus who was introduced into the cell of General A---- whom he found completely overcome by the death of his son. To this grief, which was intense and terrific, was joined the most violent anger against the Count, whom he called the murderer and assassin of his son. "Yes," said the unfortunate father, "he is a villain, and coward, and has denounced the father and killed the son. What have I done to this man? why is he so enraged against me? why against mine?"

"General," said Von Apsberg, "I can understand how bitter a despair like yours must be: it should not, though, make you unjust towards a man of honor who was your associate and is ours." This was said in a low tone. "Count Monte-Leone fought honorably against your son, and but for an unforseen accident would have been killed by him. Resume, then, your coolness. Time is precious, and I beg you to tell me why you have accused Monte-Leone."

"Would to God I had kept that terrible secret to myself! would to God my son had never heard that charge! He would not then have been forced to meet him to avenge me; he would have been living now."

The sobs of the General increased. Von Apsberg suffered his grief to pass away, and asked, "Is this note yours, General?"

"What note?" asked he, and looking through his tears at a piece of paper which the Doctor gave him.

Von Apsberg whispered almost in his ear. "This note was given a few days after your arrest."

The General read it, and said: "Yes, an old servant who accompanied me to the prison, and who was afterwards taken away, was my messenger."

"And you say that you saw in the hands of the Prefect, as the basis of the charge against you, the list of the members of your _vente_ signed by you and given by you to Count Monte-Leone."

"I do."

"Well," said the Doctor, "repel this error, and do justice to the innocent name you have aspersed, for the Count gave me that very list, and here it is." The General took the document and looked minutely at the signature. He then said, "This is not the list I gave Monte-Leone. My signature is forged. Both the list and signatures have been imitated by a forger, skilfully indeed, but the true list, the one which beyond doubt will take me to the scaffold, this list, as I say and as my blood will prove, is in the hands of the Prefect of police."

Von Apsberg grew pale and leaned against the wall. An icy paleness ran through his veins and a cloud stood before his eyes. He shuddered at this distinct statement. The fact was this list must have been taken from his own papers and imitated in his own room which hitherto he had looked on as inviolable, or the Count was a traitor, and the General right. The unfortunate Lieutenant was not mistaken, he had proved all he said, and was correct in all he did. "General," said Von Apsberg, "for the sake of the honor of a man who is dear to me, for the sake of an association the dominant idea of which you have sustained so nobly and for which you now suffer, think well--make an appeal to your memory; let not chagrin lead you astray, I beg you; by your thirty glorious years of service, I ask you if that is not your signature?"

"On my conscience, and by the memory of my son, I vow that list is an imitation, a copy of mine, and that the original was given to Angles on the day of my arrest."

"It is a strange and incredible mystery," said Von Apsberg, who continued to repel with horror the idea of treason in Monte Leone. Some enemy must have taken this paper from the Count and copied it.

"Do not look so far for this traitor. I have pointed him out to you. The man you call your friend has denounced and betrayed me by means of that fatal document. I tell you, Doctor, he is a coward, and has betrayed the father and son." The old soldier wept. They came to tell the Doctor that the time allotted for his visit was past. He was about to leave when the General seized him and said, "Do prompt justice to that man, _or the day of Carbonarism is gone_." Von Apsberg could not restrain an expression of terror when he heard these words and saw the look with which they were accompanied. He clasped the General's hand and followed the turnkey who accompanied him to the outer gate of the conciergerie....

Two days before this scene, MM. Ober and professor C., the two other chiefs of the central _ventes_, who were yet at liberty, placed in the hands of Count Monte-Leone their lists certified to as those of General A----, F----, B----, and the Count de Ch----, had been. Monte-Leone at once took those important papers to Matheus, who shut them up with the others in a secret drawer of the old bureau, a print of the lock of which we saw Mlle. Crepineau's lover take. Von Apsberg, when he returned home, found Taddeo and the Vicompte waiting for him. The latter was much changed, being pale and weak. He was so anxious, however, to learn the result of the Doctor's visit to A---- that he went to his house. Von Apsberg was struck by the agitation of his friends and the desperation of their countenances. Taddeo said: "We are betrayed and lost, and Carbonarism in France is dead. Ober and C---- were last night arrested and taken to prison." Von Apsberg sank on his chair without speaking. He then arose and rushed out of the room. "What is the matter with him?" said both Taddeo and the Vicomte. Von Apsberg went to his laboratory, opened the door and then the secretary. He took out a mass of papers, and descended again with rapidity. He said to the Vicomte, "you know the signature of Ober, having corresponded with him on business," and handed him the letter.

D'Harcourt took it, and went to the window, the curtains of which he threw aside. He looked carefully at the signature; and then, after a minute examination of every letter, said, "It is forged." He then took a letter from his pocket and added, "I can prove it by this." He then laid the letter which was written by Ober side by side with the roll and said, "This is but a coarse imitation."

Von Apsberg beat his breast and exclaimed: "As you said, my friends, _Cabonarism is dead in France_, and one of its sons, or rather its chief, who should have defended it with his body and mind, with his blood and life, has basely slain it."

"Do you mean Monte-Leone?" asked d'Harcourt and Taddeo.

"I mean Monte-Leone," and he told all that had passed between the General and himself.

"No!" said Taddeo. "I do not and can not think so. I will not. I will not think one I have esteemed honorable to a proverb, so debased. No! Count Monte-Leone is neither a spy nor a traitor. No! he shall be slandered by none; not even by you shall such a slander be uttered against a friend, countryman, and brother."

"Why," added he, with great vehemence, "why do you not ask for another version than that which condemns him? why may not these lists have been taken and copied while in his possession? why may they not have been thus treated, so that he gave you but counterfeits when he fancied he gave you originals? Indeed," said the noble-hearted young man, "you forget too easily the qualities of those you love, and are oblivious of years of courage consecrated to the cause we sustain, and for which he has periled his life. Truly your friendship turns now into hatred and contempt."

"Taddeo," said d'Harcourt, "We too, suffer--our hearts also repel what our reason tells us is true. As you do we seek to satisfy ourselves that hate not design had produced our ruin. We, like you, are unwilling to think our friend a villain; and God grant we may not be mistaken."

Von Apsberg added that his faith in Monte-Leone had been revived by Taddeo's energetic defence. Every thing must have a cause, a reason, a motive. Why then should Monte-Leone betray us.

"Well, well, my friends," said Taddeo, clasping their hands, "if you do not suspect you are not sure of what you say; you will soon be satisfied, and in a short time will deplore your unworthy suspicion. But I who repelled it will now fathom what it means. Our safety and a brother's honor depend on our doing so."

"Gentlemen," said Von Apsberg, "we should be guilty if we concealed any longer from Monte-Leone what we intended. Certainly a determined will is required to enable one to inflict such a blow on him. He alone can enable us to trace the traitors and criminals. He can give us light--otherwise we are in darkness."

Taddeo said, "Ask me to brave death, to risk my liberty for our cause, and I will not hesitate. Do not, though, ask me to say to a man whom I think honorable, 'you are accused of having sold your brothers, of having basely denounced their secrets--you are called a traitor and a spy--that I cannot do.'"

D'Harcourt said, like Taddeo, "I feel myself incompetent to make this revelation. My lips would quiver, and in spite of my efforts, my strength would fail when I looked into his lofty brow and frank countenance. On that brow fear and shame have never spread a blush."

"Then I will speak," said Von Apsberg, "I love the Count as well as you do, and accused him just now with deep regret, my heart refuting the imputation which my mouth uttered. I will see him, I will tell him of all, and will in my devotion accomplish the most cruel task ever imposed on me."

Just then several blows were struck on the pannel of the book-case through which we have seen S. Pignana enter, and also Signor Salvatori and M. H----. "This is some important information from Pignana," said Von Apsberg, and he touched the spring. The panel opened, but behind it was Monte-Leone instead of Pignana. All experienced great emotion when they saw him. Von Apsberg was the most agitated, for he was to speak, and had thus the most painful task to perform.

"I am just now come," said Monte-Leone, "but I did not think I should enter Frederick's house openly. Prudence is now more needed than ever. You have heard," said he, "of the arrests of the chiefs of the two other central _ventes?_"

"Yes," said Von Apsberg, "and we were seeking to discover who is our secret enemy."

"This misfortune," said the Count, "is to be attributed rather to our friends than our enemies. One piece of indiscretion may have produced all this."

"Imprudence," said Matheus, "in a conspiracy, is a crime. It endangers all who participate in it."

"My friends," said the Count, "our association is menaced from all quarters. The journals of every day reveal to all Europe the misfortunes of the secret societies of Germany and Italy--the sisters of Carbonarism in France. The latter, attacked in the person of the chiefs of our central _ventes_, mortally wounded by the discouragement of a great number of our brothers, has now but one of two alternatives to take."

"Revolt?" said Von Apsberg.

"Violence?" said Taddeo.

"No, my friend, prudence and inaction."

All looked at him with surprise, and Von Apsberg felt again the strange feeling which the facts we have recounted had produced.

The Count resumed. "What I say, it is evident, astonishes you. Burdened, though, with a heavy responsibility by the _ventes_ of Europe, which await, as a signal for action, only my word, I can give it to this immense secret association, which is beneath the surface of society, only when force and number are aided by opportunity. Opportunity now is wanting; for the uneasy eye of government penetrates our ranks, and the iron hand of despotism decimates us. Force and numbers now are paralysed by fear, and I am sorry to say all our future hope is found in prudence and inactivity."

"This language is indeed strange in the month of Monte-Leone," said d'Harcourt.

"Far different," said Taddeo, "from that you used yesterday."

"Calm and cold," said Von Apsberg, "when we take into consideration the storm which howls around us--the shipwrecks which menace every day our vessels."

"Because the heavens are in a blaze--because the tempests howls around us, I would have you for the time seek a shelter."

"Once, though," said Apsberg, "you advised us to brave danger, to meet it face to face, to parry it with arms in our hands, to conquer or to die."

"Gentlemen," said the Count with dignity, "am I called on to rehearse again the offensive scene which took place at the abbey de San Paolo? Am I, as one in the supreme _vente_ of Naples, the chief of which I was, an object of distrust to my brethren? Have I again lost the confidence of my dearest associates? If such be the case, if the pledges I have given to our cause are now valueless, if forgetfulness and ingratitude go together, say so, plainly and distinctly. I am willing to abandon the office, title, and rank, you have conceded to me. I will write to all the _ventes_ of Europe and will henceforth become the most humble but not the least devoted brother of the association."

The suspicions of the three friends at once passed away when they heard this energetic and loyal discourse. Von Apsberg gave his hand to the Count. "Excuse us," said he, "misfortune embitters even the best men. The misfortunes of our brethen, the mysterious enemy who denounces and seems anxious to effect our ruin, overwhelm and distress us. Look," added he, with the haste with which men often discharge a painful duty, "here are the lists of the six chiefs of the central _ventes_. Are these the papers given you by the imprisoned chiefs A----, Ch----, B----, C----, F----, and Ober? Are these the papers you gave me?"

"They are."

"Are these their signatures?" said Von Apsberg.

"They are."

"You are mistaken," said d'Harcourt, "at least in relation to that of Ober, for here is his true signature to this letter, written the day previous to his arrest. You can yourself see how poor the imitation is."

The Count grew pale, and the other conspirators watched him as if to read his thoughts.

"Do you think the other lists also forgeries?" said the Count.

"We do."

"Then," said the Count, "all is lost."

"All _is_ lost," said Von Apsberg, "and we wish to ascertain from you who had charge of these papers; how is it that they have been copied, and how came the originals in the hands of the police?"

"If such be the case," said Taddeo, who suffered visibly from this species of examination.

"But," said Monte-Leone, who became more and more excited, "you ask me a question I cannot answer--which God alone can explain. All this is a mystery beyond my powers."

"Well," said Von Apsberg, growing every moment more nervous, for he saw the approach of the necessity of this terrible explanation; "well, in the absence of proof, our brethren indulge in conjectures." As he spoke, the words seemed riveted to his lips, and to break from them with difficulty.

"What are those conjectures?" said Monte-Leone, resuming his _sang-froid;_ for the idea that there was a suspicion in relation to his honor, was not within the compass of his thought. He began to seek a remedy almost before he knew what was the evil which menaced him.

"THEY SAY," said Von Apsberg, with hesitation, "that some traitor has insinuated himself among us and betrayed us to the secret police--that he has sold us to our enemies, and that the arrests of our brothers are the fruits of his treason."

"Who is that man?" said Monte-Leone.

"Who is he?" said Von Apsberg, and his very heart grew cold.

"Yes! who? who is he?" said Monte-Leone.

Von Apsberg was about to speak; the bolt was about to fall. His two friends ceased almost to breathe, when the door of the room was rung violently.

"Who can it be at this hour?" said d'Harcourt.

"I cannot tell," said the Doctor, "I expect no one."

The bell was rung again.

"Some patient, perhaps," said Monte-Leone. "Go at once. A doctor should always be prompt to attend such calls."

"But," said d'Harcourt, "what if it be an officer?"

"Then there is an additional reason for answering the bell," said Monte-Leone.

Von Apsberg left the room, closing the door after him and hurrying into the anteroom, saw before him Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. The three friends listened at the door Von Apsberg had closed, to ascertain who called.

"Excuse me, Doctor," said Mlle. Crepineau, "but the matter was so urgent."

"What?"

"This note, which a very pleasant person, fair as you are, but not so handsome, asked me to deliver at once."

"Very well," said the Doctor, who took the note and shut the door in Mlle.'s face.

"Now that is not polite," said she. "After all, though, he may have been engaged in some operation when I rang, and he may have been very much annoyed by the interruption."

Von Apsberg read the letter which had been given him hurriedly and uttered an exclamation of joy. When he rejoined his friends, he said, "God has come to our assistance."

"What is the matter?" asked all of them.

"Nothing that concerns us," said the Doctor, seeking to disguise his trouble; "I have an appointment which is strictly private."

"Tell me, then," said Monte-Leone, "who is accused of having betrayed us."

"I do not know," said Von Apsberg, at once changing his tone. "No one can say who he is."

D'Harcourt and Taddeo looked at him with surprise. The Count said, "I thought our secret enemy, or the person pointed out as such, was known to you."

"He is not," said the Doctor, looking significantly at his friends. "None know who he is."

"Then," said Monte-Leone, "we must seek him out and reach him wherever he is."

"If we discover him," said Von Apsberg, "what shall be his fate."

"Our statutes provide for that case," said Monte-Leone; "he shall share his victim's fate. If our brethren die, so shall he."

"He shall die," said the _Carbonari_.

"Listen," said Monte-Leone, "the signature of Ober is false, but perhaps it is the only one which has been counterfeited. We must ascertain whether the others are. This point must be cleared up, and I will see to it. Gold and influence will open the dungeons of our friends, and I will see them. Besides, the papers were not out of my possession. Ah!" said he, as if he were utterly discouraged, "this is enough to make a man mad. To-morrow I shall have penetrated it, and then you will see me." He went out through the secret pannel.

When it had closed, Apsberg arose and repeating his last words, said, "Yes, my friends, to-morrow you shall know all." Taking from his bosom the letter Mlle. Crepineau had given him, he read as follows:

"TO DOCTOR MATHEUS--If you would ascertain who has denounced your brethren, the miserable spy whose reports have ruined them and given to your enemies the original rolls, be to-night at 11 o'clock, p. m., at the back door of the Prefecture of Police, opening on the _quai des Orfevres_. You will there find the person you need. This is the hour of his _rendezvous_. Stand in the angle of the door, and without being seen, you may recognize the informer.

"A BROTHER _of the third_ CENTRAL VENTE."

V.--A TERRIBLE NIGHT.

The night of January 5th, 1820, was one of the coldest of the winter. The snow fell heavily, and the Seine was covered with large crystallized flakes which, uniting together and lodging on each bank, narrowed the current and caused it to flow more rapidly.

The steps of the patrols, or of the benighted travellers, were unheard. The light of the lamps shone redly but indistinctly amid the snowy cloak which hung around them. They seemed like eyes of fire in the long solitary streets. All was sad and gloomy in this paradise of pleasure and festival. One might have fancied a vast white shroud to be extended over a city without souls.

A man walked rapidly down the port St. Nicholas, before that part of the old Louvre which had once witnessed such joy, love, crime, and splendor. His steps seemed, from their length, to testify great impatience and an anxiety to reach his destination.